


Pandora

by Elialys



Series: Trickling Down the Hourglass [9]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (they're always a bit smutty with me :p), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Empathy, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, Post-Episode: s04e13 Journey's End, Regeneration Angst (Doctor Who), Romance, Smutty, TARDIS Coral, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elialys/pseuds/Elialys
Summary: “You're playing with Pandora's box. Sometimes it's better not to open it. Sometimes, it's better not to know.” Tatiana de RosnaySome of the Doctor's abilities are returning...but everything comes at a price.
Relationships: Metacrisis Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Series: Trickling Down the Hourglass [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1385539
Comments: 112
Kudos: 136





	1. I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been wanting to focus back on these two for moooonths, more thoroughly than with a (smutty) oneshot or little ficlets; I have missed them so much ♥
> 
> This is part of my Tentoo x Rose series, but I think it’s still easy to follow even if you haven’t read the previous stories (although you should because, you know, I think they’re neat :p). It does bring back some elements from previous stories, especially [In the Blur of the Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19225939/chapters/45712690), but nothing drastic.
> 
> This is not going to be very long – five fairly short parts, according to my notes. Rated (soft) M for now, because of some ~things happening, which will come as a shock to no one who’s read my previous stories in this series xD
> 
> Expect domestic softness and a nice dose of angst :’D 

**I.**

She wakes up to soft light coming from his side of the bed.

She’s moved away from him as she slept, something that tends to happen against her will. Still, even though he’s not pinned to her back the way they both prefer him to be, the warm weight of his hand rests heavily upon her hip, three of his fingers pressed to her skin under the fabric of her shirt.

The hand is dislodged as Rose stirs and stretches, turning onto her other side to face him, finding him sitting up against a couple of pillows; his legs are slightly bent in front of him, using them to prop up the heavy book that has become an integral part of their lives these days, just like the book before that, or the one that will come after.

She’s instinctively reached out for that hand no longer on her hip, now sleepily massaging his fingers, something he’s become quite used to – it’s no secret how fond she is of his hands. Although he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look away from what he’s reading, the way his fingers return some of the pressure or how his thumb occasionally caresses her skin is acknowledgement enough.

They remain like this for some time, the Doctor reading while she watches him, the only sound breaking the quiet being his free hand turning pages; that same hand goes up to his face almost as regularly to push his specs back up his nose – to no avail, too engrossed in his reading to realise it’s pointless, given the downward tilt of his head.

“You should be sleeping,” he eventually speaks, his voice low and soft, his eyes still on the page. “I can go in the living room, if you want.”

She doesn’t.

Sure, she loves her sleep, but she’s more concerned by this new sleep pattern of his; the change is recent enough not to have become _alarming_ yet, but she can’t help thinking about what he told her the other night.

When she shakes her head, the small movement drags his gaze from the book at last, meeting her eyes over the rim of his glasses.

“I want you here,” she whispers, her stomach dipping when he smiles in response. “What’s this chapter ‘bout?” she asks a little more loudly, her voice hoarse with sleep.

“The brachial plexus,” he answers, and she frowns. “That’s the network of nerves responsible for…this,” he adds, having regained control of the hand she’d been doting on to grab one of hers, using a finger to trace a slow line from the centre of her palm to her wrist.

Although his fingertip barely grazed her skin, it causes a strong shiver to travel up her arm, before it trickles down her spine, triggering a familiar stir somewhere deeper.

“Horniness?” Rose asks, feigning innocence, and her attempt at humour is rewarded when his eyes crinkle and he lets out a low, rumbly chuckle, before bringing her hand up to his mouth to press a kiss to her wrist.

That soft pressure followed by the warmth of his breath successfully induce more shivers. “That’s your median nerve right there...” he murmurs against the tender skin, before nibbling at it, the shivers already more…prickly.

“’s pretty sensitive,” Rose notes, trying to sound less affected than she is.

“Well,” he says, the pads of two fingers drumming lightly on the hard bone of her wrist – one he undoubtedly knows the name of. “It would be a tad reductive to say your median nerve is solely responsible for your sense of touch, especially with such a light touch,” he continues, the back of his nails trailing the skin of her forearm as he says these words.

“Yeah?” she breathes out; she’s not exactly passionate about the topic itself, but he sure has a way of making her feel invested.

“Mmm…” the Doctor hums in confirmation, before moving more drastically, shoving his anatomy textbook aside, until it’s landing onto the floor with a loud _thump_ they both ignore, more focused on the smooth shift of their bodies as she rolls onto her back and he settles between her legs, quite low. “It all starts with your skin, you see,” he explains as his fingers push up her top, until his breath is tickling the skin just above her pyjama shorts, causing her stomach muscles to twitch, sinking all ten of her fingers in his hair.

He uses one of his fingers to trace a line below her navel, followed by another line, a couple centimetres lower.

“That’s the epidermis, the outer layer of your skin,” he says. “Below that…” he traces a third line, his finger disappearing under the hem of her shorts to do so, “…there’s a thicker layer called the dermis.” He blows a thin stream of air upon his invisible sketch, inducing more twitching. “Both layers are full of thousands of receptors cells and corpuscles, every single one of them designed to register external stimuli. When they do, they send nerve impulses to the rest of the network, until they reach your brain and inform your somatosensory cortex that something or someone is…touching you.”

Some couples have dirty talks; they have this.

Him breathing out the name of each sinew, muscle and bone that lie beneath her skin.

 _Epidermis_ , she corrects herself as every hair on that outer layer of hers rises in response to his touch, caused by tiny muscles contracting, he’s explained. Even when he goes quiet, too engrossed in the feel of her to keep up with this impromptu lesson, his knowledge is there, in the press of his fingertips upon her flesh, in the caress of his tongue over places teeming with nerve endings.

Her knowledge of anatomy might be null compared to his, her knowledge of _him_ is substantial enough, just as capable of eliciting similar responses…how he shudders at the twist of her fingers in his hair…how the simple scratch of her nails upon his scalp is enough to make him lose focus, until he’s relying on instincts instead of brains…the clasp of his fingers more pleading than pleasing by then, yet it never fails to take her there…deeper into the heat, where everything is him and them and the pulse of it all.

It happens tonight the way it’s happened a few times before, when every single one of her nerves are raw, and primed, when they’re as close physically as they could ever get, pounding hearts, mingled breaths and sleek skins.

It’s like a gate opens, one she didn’t know was there, yet its presence is both indisputable and innate.

His pleasure becomes hers, her pleasure becomes his, the sensation so intense that they can all but yield to its inexorability, swooped up in the swell of a rolling wave none of them can control nor stop, and she clings to his frame with such force that she worries about bruising him, tiny tattoos imprinted all the way down _his_ dermis.

 _This_ really isn’t what Rose imagined telepathy would be like.

“Still not telepathy,” he reminds her afterwards when she says it out loud, his words half-muffled against her neck as he’s yet to move off her.

“Yeah, yeah…” she breathes out with some difficulty, her lungs compressed by the weight of him. _Enhanced empathy_ , he likes to call it. “Potayto, pohtato.”

The Doctor pushes himself off her just enough to look at her with a brand new scowl. Considering he never got around to taking his glasses off, he’s peering at her over _slightly_ fogged up lenses, not to mention their crooked frames, a sight that is rather endearing.

She shakes her head with a smile, clearing some damp hair from his forehead with soft fingers, before taking the specs off his face, tossing them over the edge of the bed.

“Idiom,” she says simply, too drained to explain herself any further. “I just think it’d be nice if we could _choose_ to make it happen, you know, instead of it just…taking over like that.”

His face has relaxed again, except for the smug smile pulling at his lips. “Now where would be the fun in that, eh?”

His brain _must_ still be overflooded with happy chemicals for him to be saying this, considering he’s usually the first to complain about how ‘diminished’ his telepathic – slash – empathic abilities are turning out to be in this hybrid body.

Rose lets it go, too tired to discuss this any further tonight; he follows her lead, the way he often does, joining her in some mandatory cuddling. Maybe they’ll find the energy to go wash up, eventually, but for now, they’re quite happy to stay like this, his nose back to nuzzling her neck while she caresses his hair.

Yet her mind wanders off, the way minds do.

“Did you have another dream?” she asks after some time, keeping her voice low.

Her insides twist when his body tenses against hers, and the steady gusts of air against her skin briefly halt; she almost speaks again to change the subject.

They’ve been down that road before, though, the road that leads to him clamming up about whatever he’s going through, while she walks on eggshells trying to give him space. They’ve learned that lesson.

He proves it tonight by answering instead of remaining silent, the way he might have only a few weeks ago.

“I did,” he whispers. Not a _great_ answer, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Her heart speeds up beneath her ribs, unable to ignore the uncertainty in these two whispered words.

“What did you see?” she asks, just as quietly.

He can’t _feel_ her eagerness bubbling just under the surface, that gate having closed again for the time being, but there’s no way she’s fooling him any more than he’s fooling her.

He probably regrets telling her about these dreams he’s been having ever since he started working on the coral piece, an unforeseen consequence to his resurfacing abilities.

Rose _tries_ not to pry, not to sound too desperate for the smallest crumb of information, but she really can’t lie to herself, nor can she lie to him.

She will always want to know more, when there’s only so much he can give.

“Sand,” the Doctor answers at last, his voice oddly hollowed. “I saw sand.”

He says nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of now, I’m about two weeks away from completely unrooting myself from England and moving back to France, which means I want to procrastinate packing or thinking about things as much as possible. I intend to get this done within that time frame (hahaha!) so do feel free to subscribe to it, and remember, feedback is the surest way to give me good feelings. Good feelings = less moping over existential crisis = more writing xD


	2. II.

**II.**

When Rose lets herself into their flat, that evening, the place is devoid of light.

She hangs her keys and quietly steps out of her shoes, before walking to the living room area, finding his silhouette almost at once – or at least part of it; he’s sitting low on the couch, head against the back of it, tilted towards the ceiling. Every other detail is lost to the darkness.

The headaches, although not as frequent as they used to be when he was first born in this body, still happen regularly enough for her to recognise the signs.

She makes a quick detour by the kitchen, soaking a cloth with cold water, before returning to the living room, coming to stand behind the couch. When she gently applies the compress to his forehead, he lets out a long sigh, bringing a hand up to cover hers, giving it a grateful squeeze, and she leans down to press a kiss to his knuckles.

“Hey…” she whispers. “Took anything yet?”

He nods against her touch, but remains quiet. A thin ray of light is streaming through the kitchen’s door, which she’s left ajar, enough for her to take a better look at his surroundings; on both sides of him, the couch is covered with open textbooks and research papers, his feet resting on another pile of papers scattered across the coffee table, all of which have become a familiar sight, these last few months.

Although he’s clearly been studying all day, the way he spends most of his days lately, save for the two a week he spends with Torchwood’s medical team, Rose knows that him attempting to cram years of knowledge into his brain as quickly as humanly possible isn’t the culprit for this particular migraine.

She stares at the guitar half-lying on his lap, well aware that none of them actually owns a guitar.

“Interesting shape,” she whispers, her second hand now in his hair, applying soft pressure to his cranium, when her nails aren’t scratching his scalp.

“Mm…” he hums in acknowledgement; his fingers brush the neck of the guitar, producing a couple of low notes. “She’s obviously going through a musical phase. Quite a step up from the trumpet, too.”

 _Quite a step up_ is one way to put it, considering the sheer difference in size alone; at least it explains the headache.

Given how much of his mental energy he’s using to help the process along, whenever their TARDIS goes through a growth spurt, he’s the one taking the brunt of it.

There’s also his returning abilities.

“Establishing a telepathic bond of any kind is a bit like trying to find the right frequency on a radio,” he'd explained when it first started happening. “You’ve got to turn on that knob until both wavelengths align and harmonise. I can _feel_ its potential, right there in my own mind, feel what it could be, but it’s like my head’s full of statics.”

He’d said that right around the time he’d found out their TARDIS was…special.

His words, not hers.

“She sure is something special,” he’d announced, his voice filled with unabashed amazement, alongside a healthy amount of confusion. “Mind you, I’m not exactly an expert,” he’d added. “I’m more well-versed in TARDIS borrowing than in TARDIS growing, to be perfectly honest.”

‘TARDIS growing’ isn’t something Rose is well-versed in either, but she tries keeping up with what’s going on, even if she _does_ space out on occasions, including that one time he explained in details how exactly he’d managed to ‘shatterfry her plasmic shell.’

When she’d asked what exactly made him think their TARDIS was ‘special’, he’d scratched at his stubbly chin with a bit of a thoughtful pout. “I just don’t think they usually require this amount of nurturing.” More scratching. “Yet again, TARDIS were always grown by Time Lords, not by humans or part-humans.”

And by nurturing, he did mean _nurturing_.

As in, talking, singing, rocking...just to mention a few, all of which have led to some interesting scenes. It took Rose a while to get used to the sight of her husband _cooing_ over what at the time still looked like a chunk of tree bark.

“You just need to open up your mind a little,” he’d advised her without an ounce of condescension, for once, when she’d lamented her lack of connection with this TARDIS. “Trust is a two-way street. If you keep on seeing her as a piece of wood, she’s not gonna let you in.”

Rose had made a conscious effort after that, especially since it was obvious _his_ efforts were paying off; not only were his telepathic (empathic) abilities returning, but that little piece of coral _was_ growing.

Eventually, it’d paid off for her, too.

“You know what you remind me of?” she’d once asked what had been an _elongated_ chunk of coral, at the time, carefully held in her hands.

The TARDIS, of course, did not reply, but Rose could have sworn she felt a question form in her mind.

Instead of answering with words, Rose had closed her eyes and focused on that one scene from a film she and the Doctor had watched only a few weeks ago. When she’d reopened her eyes, she’d nearly dropped the TARDIS in shock, before bellowing her husband’s name.

He’d rushed out of the kitchen where he’d been busy getting dinner ready, fingers dripping with what turned out to be tomato juice, looking equally panicked and curious…until his gaze stopped on what Rose was now holding, his face splitting into a huge grin.

“I take it this means we’ve bonded?” she’d asked, unable not to respond to his grin with one of her own.

The long piece of coral was gone; instead, she’d been cradling what looked like a small plant pot, from which a small tree trunk was sprouting.

A tree trunk that also happened to have two tiny arms and a ‘head’, ornamented with two big eyes and a slit mouth.

“Her first transmutation!” he’d exclaimed in his happiest, high-pitched voice, sounding exactly like she felt – like their offspring had just taken their first step, or maybe peed in a potty. “And what a brilliant one, at that! Our own _Baby Groot_ , can you believe it?”

‘Baby Groot’ had entertained them for quite some time, their TARDIS having obviously picked up on their enthusiasm and fondness for the form. Although she couldn’t move, she’d spent the next few days changing her shape when they weren’t looking, making her little alien-tree-self take on various postures.

Progress became almost exponential at this point, as the Doctor spent as much time bonding with their TARDIS as he did studying.

Rose understands why he’s so involved in this, aware of how familiar and comforting it must be for him, to be able to get this Time Lord trait back, after months spent having to adapt to a very human life style.

Understanding it doesn’t make it any less worrying, even if it’s made their own bond stronger.

She worries about how it’s affecting him, as she’s become rather attuned to his pain, not to mention his fluctuating moods and disrupted sleep pattern.

When the compress becomes too warm beneath her palm, she peels it off his face and drops it at her feet, her free hand joining the first one in his hair as she leans down again, pressing her lips to his cool forehead, this time. He lets out a low sound as he reaches up for her, a noise that is both pained and content, his hand disappearing in her hair.

The relief that squeezes at her heart in that moment isn’t hers, not when her insides were twisting in worry and helplessness a mere second ago.

That gate has cracked open, just enough for some of his emotions to seep through to her.

Not about to dismiss such an opportunity, Rose focuses, attempting to absorb some of his pain, the way the cold cloth had absorbed heat from their skins.

What happens is somewhat more…substantial and unexpected, vivid images flashing in her mind.

 _Sand_ , he’d told her only a few nights ago. _I saw sand_.

It isn’t just sand, though.

It’s a _desert_ , expending as far as the eye can see…except in the distance, towards the horizon, where a storm is approaching.

 _It’s not a storm_ , a voice echoes all around – his voice, causing a sense of foreboding to swell within them both.

The gate closes shut without any warning, forcing Rose back into her own head, her lips still pressed to his forehead, her fingers in his hair.

Until he moves and she has to straighten up, watching as his feet drop from the coffee table and he bends forwards, cradling his head in his hands.

“Sorry…” he whispers after almost a full minute a silence. “That was a bit harsh.”

Rose is holding on to the back of the couch to keep herself upright, her head achy and hazy, her legs uncomfortably numb.

“I thought – ” she tries, but her voice falters. She swallows hard, before trying again. “I thought you said you couldn’t control it.”

He shakes his head in his hands. “I couldn’t,” he says. “This is new.” A pause. “Kind of. Not entirely new to me, I suppose. Definitely new to us.”

The silence becomes even thicker.

“The storm…” she breathes out. “Is that…new, too? Or is it a memory?”

 _Is it happening_ right now, is what she really wants to ask.

He drops his hands but doesn’t straighten up. “It’s a _dream_ ,” he replies to his knees, and his voice, louder than it’s been at any point tonight, cracks on the last word.

His whole body is locked into place; even with the lack of light, the small tremors going through him are unmistakable.

Rose pushes down on her need to ask _more_ , find out _more_ , his distress taking precedence over everything else, as it dawns on her that his reluctance to speak about this might not have anything to do with him trying to keep her out.

“Hey…” she calls out softly, reaching for him over the back of the couch to put a hand on any part of him she can reach, aware that he’s so tense, he might recoil from her touch.

He doesn’t.

He responds to it instead, scooting back closer to her, until he’s close enough for her to wrap her arms around his shoulders, holding him as tight as she can, despite the couch between them, pressing the side of her face to his stubbly cheek, his own hands coming up to rest on her arms.

“What are you afraid of?” she murmurs.

His next exhale is wobbly, as she suspected it would be; she feels his thumping heart, one of her hands resting upon his chest.

“Losing myself.”

He speaks the words so quietly, she barely hears them, as if he’s ashamed to be saying this out loud.

He confirms it the next time he speaks.

“I know it’s stupid…” he breathes out with a shake of his head.

She shakes her head, too, giving him another tight squeeze. “Not stupid at all,” she reassures him.

Given how much he’s struggled with finding himself and giving this new life a purpose beyond having a relationship with her, it’s not hard to understand why _this_ terrifies him, an emotion he’s letting her feel, tonight, the gate ajar once more.

Rose counters it the way she always does; with love, and warmth.

“’m not gonna say I understand any of this,” she admits. “Or lie to you and pretend it’s not messing with my head a little too, ‘cause it is. But you’re not alone in this. No matter what’s going on, you can’t just…shut me out again.” She moves to press a kiss to his neck, right below his jaw. “Can’t get lost if you're holding on to me, yeah?” she whispers in his ear.

His next exhale is even wobblier, but he nods against her, tightening his holds on her as if to prove her point.

(It won’t keep the storm from coming)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback isn't mandatory, but it is deeply appreciated ♥


	3. III.

**III.**

When Rose finally manages to extract herself from the work conversation she’s been pulled into, the Doctor is nowhere to be seen. It doesn’t worry her, as he’s become particularly good at blending with his surroundings in these kinds of forced social interactions.

She surveys the children’s area, first; although he’s been expressly forbidden by his mother-in-law to go anywhere near the bouncy castle that has been erected for the occasion, Jackie hasn’t said anything about the large set-up of sprinklers. Even from a distance, Rose easily spots her brother amongst the small crowd of children shrieking and laughing as they run through the squirts of water.

No Doctor, though.

She keeps scanning this portion of the Tylers’ property, unable not to smirk when she eventually spots a long pair of legs sticking out from behind a large tree. She can’t say she’s that surprised when she joins him and finds that he’s managed to sneak a pocket book out of the flat, this one entitled ‘ _Approach to Internal Medicine_ ’, which he is currently reading with his specs low on his nose.

When she sits down, leaning against his side more than she leans against the trunk, he doesn’t interrupt his reading – although he does reach for the half-finished plate of chips now resting on her lap, grabbing a handful and swiftly shoving them into his mouth.

Resting her chin on his shoulder, she tries deciphering what’s on the page, but she finds the wording both tedious and…tiny.

“Bored of people already?” she asks once he’s done swallowing his second mouthful of chips.

He gives a small shrug. “No more than usual,” he says. “I’m mostly hiding from your mother.”

Rose sighs. Jackie being overbearing is nothing new to her, considering the woman _raised_ her, but this excessive nurturing mixed with loud disapproval has been a tad overwhelming for the Doctor at times.

“’s she complaining about you being too skinny again?”

“I believe the word she used today was _scrawny_ ,” he says, before shoving more chips into his mouth – an irony Rose doesn’t miss; she’s quite aware of how much of a foodie her husband actually is. His metabolism just happens to work in mysterious ways her mum refuses to accept. “Also told me she and your dad have a bet going.”

Rose frowns; bets tend to be one of _their_ things. “Yeah?” she says. “What about?”

“Us,” he says, finally closing his book to look at her with a bit of a cheeky smile. “She seems to think you’re not gonna be able to stay in Frankfurt the whole time. According to your mother, you’ll be flying home long before the five days are up.”

Rose snorts at that, followed by a roll of her eyes. “Can’t even say I‘m surprised. At least I still have Dad on my side.”

The Doctor tilts his head from side to side. “Well. Kind of. Pete’s actually betting I’ll be the one flying to you.”

Rose scoffs in forced derision. “Wonder what gives them this idea that we can’t spend a few days apart.”

“I know,” he says, leaning forwards until his forehead is touching hers, and she raises a hand to curl her fingers in his hair. “Completely preposterous.”

He’s tried keeping his mind open to hers, lately, so that when his emotions begin trickling through their bond, she’s not as surprised by it as she used to be. While she expected his amusement and a familiar kind of warm fondness, the underlying surge of apprehension does surprise her, although she should have expected it.

No matter how much they joke about that upcoming work trip of hers, her parents have a point, even if they don’t realise what makes Rose reluctant to leave him for five whole days.

He’s been particularly…vulnerable, lately, a state of mind that isn’t simply caused by his equivalency exams being just around the corner – all of which he’s going to ace, obviously, but go tell him that.

No, that _anxiety_ she feels in him today and every other day is triggered by something else entirely, something he cannot control, nor decipher clearly, only adding to his nerves.

Which is why she tries to help by doing one of the few things she knows work, most of the time.

Distraction.

When she tightens her grip on his hair, his response is immediate and genuine, although there is nothing hurried or rushed in the way his lips brush hers, then brush them again. It comforts her as much as it comforts him, her chest expanding and aching for him, a sentiment she projects out as best as she can, feeling it echoing back through their bond with equal intensity.

“Doctor!”

They both jump at the high-pitched call, pulling apart to stare at the four year old standing a few meters away, dripping wet.

The way Tony always seeks _him_ out over her these days is a testament to her brother’s love for her husband.

(Not that she’s jealous or anything)

The young boy has also spent enough time around them not to be fazed by having found them snogging against a tree.

“Come play?” Tony asks, his pleading eyes set on the Doctor, still ignoring Rose completely.

While she herself always had a hard time refusing her brother anything, her husband is even more whipped – and the boy _knows_ it.

“Well…” the Doctor tries, feebly.

“Pleeeease?” Tony insists in his sweetest voice.

The Doctor looks back at Rose, who simply smirks at him, before reaching up to pull his glasses off his face. “Phone's got to go, too,” she reminds him.

He obeys, extracting his phone along with his sonic, dumping the lot onto her lap. Next instant, he’s bounced to his feet, chasing after Tony, who is sprinting back towards the sprinklers, _screaming_ , something about being chased by a Slitheen – another testament to how much time these two have been spending together.

Rose follows at a much slower pace, as amused as she is endeared by the scene, quite used by now to seeing the Doctor take part in various children’s games; _every_ kid seems to love him, and she can’t say she blames them.

She doesn’t go back to the main area where most of her work colleagues are still gathered, standing on the outskirts of the play area instead, amongst a few supervising parents, although she feels no desire to mingle as she finishes what little is left of her chips.

‘Summer barbecues’ organised by Pete Tyler are somewhat different from the summer barbecues she used to attend with Jackie Tyler as a kid. No matter how ‘informal’ her father claims this to be, being one of the richest men in the country tends to set the bar higher.

For one thing, she sure doesn’t remember anyone hiring _caterers_ to grill the food when she was a child, or bartenders to refill empty glasses. There definitely never was any huge marquee set up to protect guests from the elements.

Still, of all the social events she’s occasionally required to attend, this one isn’t too bad.

She’s been in this world long enough now that people have stopped finding her mere presence suspicious, having more than proved herself in the Torchwood community – especially after putting an end to the stars going out. The fact that she doesn’t have to attend these things alone anymore has been a great improvement, too. No matter what they are, fancy galas or more relaxed gathering, she can always count on her husband to make her feel less out of place.

Whatever discomfort she feels at being here, he always feels worse than her – hence his tendency to hide behind trees.

He also struggles to act like most adults would act in these situations, which is one of the many things she loves about him.

Today is no exception, watching as _her_ lanky boy runs through rows of fancy sprinklers, chasing after children, all of them shrieking in pretend fear and sheer delighted laughter.

“Don’t think you need to keep that close an eye on ‘im, sweetheart,” a voice speaks behind her. “I reckon he’s old enough to play with the other kids on his own, now.”

She turns to face her mum, whose smile matches her tone, making it clear she wasn’t talking about Tony, and Rose gives her a _look_. “Don’t you have some gossiping to do?”

“What kind of mother would I be if I chose gossiping over torturing my daughter?”

When Rose sighs loudly, Jackie uses her drink to indicate the play area behind her.

“He looks better.”

Rose glances back at the Doctor, before looking at her mother with a frown. “What d’you mean?”

“Looked a bit peaky earlier when I talked to him, is all.” She shrugs. “Had his serious, ‘I’m thinkin’ big things’ scowl on, too.”

Rose’s stomach twists in unease, but she dismisses it. “That’s probably because you and Dad are _betting_ on us and he doesn’t think it’s funny.”

“Seemed to find it funny enough,” her mum counters. “Even made a lame joke about being partial to bribery.”

Rose opens her mouth to reply, but no word comes out, an icy shiver running up her spine as a deep sense of dread washes through her.

She turns, easily finding the Doctor again.

He’s not running anymore, standing frozen to the spot as sprays of water splash at him from all directions, but he doesn’t seem to care, nor to be aware of it. The look on his face alone explains why the children closest to him have stopped moving, too, his traits constricted in the kind of sneer Rose has not seen in quite some time.

She makes her way to him at once, ignoring the water just as much as he is, and the closer she gets, the clearer it becomes that he’s not entirely… _there_ anymore, his darkened eyes slightly glazed over; it’s been months since he’s last dissociated like this, a realisation that pulls at her guts with renewed strength.

He’s shaking.

“Doctor?” she calls out, keeping her voice soft, yet loud enough to get his attention.

Although his eyes move and stop on her, he’s not seeing her at all.

With her heart thumping against her ears, she reaches for his hand, curling her fingers around his, immediately getting into motion again, pulling to encourage him to follow her. A sense of foreboding sweeps through her, an emotion that is pale compared to the _fury_ also pulsing through the statics of their bond.

It’s like she’s being pulled _downwards_ , while she continues to pull him forwards.

“What’s up with ‘im?” her mum asks with genuine concern as Rose comes nearer.

Rose tries to refocus, considering their options; her instincts are urging her to take him away from the party, but taking him inside would mean walking through the crowd, which would bring more attention to what’s going on, and having more people focus on him is the last thing they need right now.

“Can you…bring us a towel?” Rose asks her mum, her voice sounding oddly distant, too, as she’s being pulled deeper into the rabbit hole, even as she drags her husband towards one of the trees and the semblance of privacy it offers, standing away from its shadows, hoping the warmth of the sun will stop the shaking.

There are no clear images this time, only flashes of water, and fire, combined with a kind of rage that chills her to the bone as his voice resonates in every corner of her mind.

… _and they will obey me_ …

“Rose?”

Her mother’s voice brings her back to herself, enough for her to let go of the Doctor’s hand, putting an end to the overflow of emotions that were never her own.

She takes the towel, keeping her gaze down as she thanks her quietly, but in the kind of tone that makes it clear she needs her to give them some space. Jackie doesn’t argue, for once, leaving them alone.

Rose doesn’t speak as she uses the towel to dry his face and hair, unable to look in his eyes, frightened by what she sees in there.

“He’s dying.”

He speaks the words quietly, yet his voice is thick and hoarse, her breath hitching in her throat as she stops her movement, finally looking up at him.

He’s… _here_ again.

The aching look in his eyes is almost worse.

“What?” she breathes out.

He closes his eyes, his face constricting as he shakes his head a little. “No, that’s wrong…” He takes a shaky breath. “I don’t think he’s… _dying_ dying. But he’s waiting for it.”

There is something unbearably cruel in being told these things, when she’s a universe away, with no means for her to get involved and _help_.

Yet she doesn’t want to ask him to stop either, can’t possibly make him stop, not when he’s being honest about what he’s experiencing.

Not when this is her last connection to… _him_.

Rose reaches up for his face with trembling fingers, anticipating a new onslaught of emotions. But when she touches him, all she feels is his slightly colder skin.

He’s shut her out again.

He leans into her palm, though, letting out a wobbly exhale against her wrist as his face constricts again, eyes still closed, and that is enough to pull her out of her own head, helping her focus on the Doctor standing before her, _shaking_.

She doesn’t need for their bond to be open to know how much this is affecting him...having to experience this torment as if it were his own while being powerless, unable to do anything about it.

Unless…

“Is there…” Her voice cracks. “Is there any way for you to help?” she tries again. “Can you…reach back?”

He shakes his head in her hand, and when he opens his eyes, their rims are red. “I’m sorry…” he whispers.

It’s her turn to shake her head, her fingers already moving from his cheek to his hair, curling then pulling. She draws him into a tight embrace, until his face is pressed to her neck, their arms locked around one another. When he gives in and lets her _in_ again, all she can do is cling to him a little tighter.

Despite the summer sun beaming down on them, they carry on shaking, their minds filled with falling snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to get this finished before my big move, but it's getting harder to focus. I do hope you're enjoying this, though.
> 
> UPDATE (August): I got sucked into writing Chasing the Aurora again whooooops. Not in the right place to work on the incoming angst in this fic either. But I'll finish this eventually, scout's honour 😉


	4. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Doctor Who Day, my lovelies! 
> 
> Yes, I'm still alive, still kicking and writing, just working on different projects all at once ^^' I know it's been a while since I updated this, so I would recommend rereading at least the previous chapter. I'm also officially adding the 'regeneration angst' tag to this fic, because...regeneration angst *innocent smile*

**IV.**

Rose did try convincing him to stay home, reminding him of how pointless it would be for him to come all this way, only to be kept back at the first security checkpoint.

He ignored every single one of her arguments, which is why they find themselves in a crowded airport, with her arms wrapped tightly around his neck and her feet off the ground, his arms just as tight around her middle as he sways her slowly on the spot; he’s breathing in so deeply, she’s fairly certain he’s attempting to imprint her scent upon every inch of his lungs.

No matter how hard they try not to be one of _these couples_ (especially in public), there are times when they simply cannot help it.

Five days apart.

Five _whole_ days apart, when all they’ve managed so far is…twelve hours.

Maybe.

The only reason why Rose has not yet caved in and bought him a ticket to fly to Frankfurt with her is pride, really, along with a strong desire to prove her parents wrong – and maybe prove _themselves_ that they are not as co-dependent as everyone seems to claim.

Now that they’re facing imminent separation, however, Co-Dependents seems like an absolutely acceptable title to wear.

He’s been particularly careful not to get their bond going as they hold each other; she knows he’s only trying to make this less difficult. _Physically_ pulling away from him is going to be hard enough.

“Remember to eat, yeah?”

Such a stupid cliché, but his well-being is a genuine concern of hers, especially these past two weeks. His mood may have improved these last few days, enough for her to feel like she could leave him on his own, she can’t help but worry.

He nods against her, remaining uncharacteristically quiet, causing her insides to squeeze. He finally lowers her, until her feet touch the ground, at which point he pulls himself from her, offering her a smile.

It’s nothing close to one of his grins, but it’s genuine enough, reminding her that he _does_ feel better, and that as someone with centuries of life experience in his head, he is absolutely capable of looking after himself for a few days.

“Don’t go saving the world without me, Rose Tyler,” he says in a perfectly fake chipper tone.

She gives him an equally fake smile. “I’ll try.”

As it turns out, they almost make it five days.

 _Almost_.

While he seems in a fairly good mood whenever she texts him or calls him on day one, by the time day two comes around, his attitude is already taking a noticeable turn toward _gloomy_.

“Just didn’t sleep much,” he tells her when she asks. “Nightmares.”

That alone is enough to make her want to fly home, but he assures her that he’s fine, and that she shouldn’t drop out of her seminar just because he’s not sleeping well.

By day three, he’s become monosyllabic, mostly answering in grunts, which leads to them communicating through text messages for the rest of the day.

Midway through day four, he stops texting back altogether.

By early evening, when her column of unanswered messages has gone past pathetic to become alarming, she tries calling him – repeatedly, getting no answer.

At this point, Rose is a ball of worries and nerves, her concern for him easily surpassing her mother’s voice, reminding her yet again that they’re too dependent. What her mother does not understand is that this is not about her missing him.

She knows in her guts that whatever he’s been experiencing lately has picked up again. She _cannot_ leave him on his own.

She’s halfway through booking the earliest possible flight back to London when she receives a message from him.

 _Knock knock_ , is all it reads.

This is nothing new between them, the message usually meant to prompt a silly ‘ _who’s there_ ’ response, or as a heads-up to the other that they’re on their way home, and that they need help carrying whatever needs carrying.

Aware that her husband would not reply to twelves unanswered text messages and five missed phone calls with a _knock knock_ joke, Rose goes to her hotel room’s door, and opens it.

When she finds him sitting on the floor near the door, his back to the wall, her insides twist in a combination of relief and concern. 

She doesn’t even wonder how he managed to find her; they’d spent literal hours on the phone during her first evening here, more than enough time for her to tell him everything he could ever want to know, from the hotel’s name to her room number.

“I was going to knock.” His voice is low and slightly hoarse. “Lost my nerve,” he admits, not looking up at her.

Her heart quickly gets lodged in her throat as she takes him in; everything in his body language screams _distress_. He looks scruffy and sleep-deprived, and his skin is too pale, if not for the dark circles under his eyes.

He _is_ near her and within arm’s reach again, though, something she’s ridiculously relieved about.

“Funny, eh?” he continues, even as she comes to sit down next to him, quietly linking her arm through his, before lacing their fingers together. “I can buy a very expensive, very ‘last minute’ plane ticket to fly across Europe without giving it much thought, but the simple act of _knocking_ was too much. Like knocking on your door would confirm just how pathetic this is.”

She’s not surprised that he hasn’t let her in, despite their direct touch, keeping her from feeling what he’s feeling. Her chin now resting on his shoulder, she shakes her head a little. “’s not pathetic. I was just booking a flight to come home tonight.”

His lips stretch into a pout. “Doesn’t make it less pathetic. I think that just makes us _equally_ pathetic.”

She shrugs. “So?”

He lets out a small gush of air. “Indeed.”

She gives his fingers a squeeze, and he finally caves in, letting a trickle of emotions travel through their bond, a rush of _fear_ soon squeezing her insides. It doesn’t last, but her throat is already tightening as helplessness takes over, unable to tell if this fear is her husband’s, or the other Doctor’s.

Or both.

“I’m struggling a bit,” he admits, his voice even hoarser. “I thought I was doing better, but in the last two days it’s all become a bit…” He lets out a wobbly breath. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s a lot.”

She doesn’t say anything for nearly a whole minute, stroking his hand with her thumb.

“Maybe it’s time you close that door,” she eventually suggests against his shoulder, quietly.

His whole body tenses, and he shakes his head. “I can’t.”

That sounded more like ‘ _I won’t’_ to her.

“There’s nothing wrong with protecting yourself,” she reminds him.

He closes his eyes, letting out a long sigh as he tilts his head back, resting it against the wall.

“He’s me, Rose,” he says in a broken voice.

“I know,” she whispers through the lump in her throat, her eyes prickling.

He shakes his head again. “I don’t think you do.” There is no hint of condescension in his voice, only distress. “You empathise, and sympathise, and you even get glimpses of what I’m experiencing but…” He swallows hard. “I don’t know how to explain this. I’ve spent months affirming myself, figuring out what made me my own person, but these things I’m seeing and feeling…”

He stops, inhaling sharply through his nose.

“ _He_ ’ll be gone, soon,” he announces. “He might regenerate, or die for good this time, and when he does…I feel like I might, too.”

The fear that grips Rose’s heart strongly enough to halt her breathing is definitely hers, this time.

“What?” she manages to breathe out.

He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. “I don’t know…” he whispers. “I just feel this sense of…doom and finality. And while I know it’s most likely just _his_ emotions spilling over… I can’t stop thinking about what happened to me, back when he and Donna first left this universe, and how it affected me. I just don’t know what’s gonna happen to me, when he stops being the person that was… _me_.”

He sounds almost crazed, now, and genuinely scared.

For a few moments, Rose is equally terrified.

But in her heart, she’s already made a decision.

No matter the part of her that will never get over this other _him_ across the Void, her husband’s well-being is what matters most. If he had some way of reaching back and communicating with him, if they could help in any way…it would be another matter altogether.

But her Doctor is stuck on the receiving end of this anguish, unable to do anything but experience it as his own. And if there is the slightest risk that this connection between them will cause him to regenerate or worse…

“No,” she declares.

The Doctor reopens his eyes, red-rimmed and watery, turning his head to properly look at her for the first time since she found him sitting there outside her room.

“No?”

She shakes her head. “We’ve talked about this before,” she reminds him. “You’re him, yeah. You came from him. But you’re also… _you_. You are your own person, even if you obviously still share a connection with him, the kind that’s strong enough to get to you. All I know is, I won’t let what’s happening to him affect you more than it already is.”

“You won’t,” he repeats, the shadow of a smile on his lips.

“I won’t,” she confirms. “And you know how stubborn I can be, especially when it comes to you.”

He leans forward until his forehead is resting against hers; she reaches up, sinking a hand in his messy hair.

“Let’s just hypothesise, though,” he says, almost in a whisper. “Let’s pretend for a minute that this _might_ really affect me. If I were to, I don’t know, suddenly change the way I look again, would you…”

He cannot bring himself to finish his sentence.

Her fingers leave his hair as she pulls away to look at him, pressing her palm to his scruffy cheek instead. “I’m staying with you, Doctor,” she reminds him quietly. “We’ve already gone through one regeneration and a metacrisis and ‘m still here, yeah?”

He rests his forehead upon hers again, letting out a wobbly breath against her lips. “I love you.”

She tightens her hold on his cheek in emphasis. “Then try shutting it down.” She’s losing her battle against her tears, trying to swallow past the lump in her throat. “ _Please_.”

He nods against her, his breathing soon deepening as he focuses.

Eventually, his body begins to relax, as some tension leaves him at last.

“Better?” she asks after some time.

“Quieter,” he replies, his voice still hoarse. “As quiet as I know how to make it.”

He doesn’t have to say anything else; she knows he feels guilty for doing this, probably even more than she does for asking him to do it.

Her need to keep him safe still dominates over everything else, though.

When he moves, shifting his body so that he can wrap his arms around her and press his face to her neck, she lets outs a deep sigh, squeezing him with equal force, soothed by the feel of him, relieved beyond words to be back at his side, even after a few short days.

Her parents and others might find them amusing, might even talk of co-dependency, or how unhealthy it is; what they seem to forget is that they can and _have_ lived without each other. For years. This goes beyond ‘depending’ on one another.

They’re outliers in this world, the two of them; anomalies.

Who else but Rose could possibly understand what’s happening to him, right now? Who else but him could understand her, understand that fractured love she feels for him, and for all the other incarnations of him she’s known?

She made her peace with it months ago, in a hotel similar to this one. She chose to let go of what had been, of what might have been, to allow herself to live this life, with the version of him who was here to stay…

…with the version of him currently shaking against her, even as he breathes out that he loves her again, the words muffled upon her neck. The words might be muffled, the feeling of it throbs deep through their bond, a bond that may be tentative and new, it doesn’t make it any less real or powerful, allowing their emotions to move from one to the other, again and again, in an endless echo.

Soon, they’re hidden behind closed doors, just the two of them, if not for the ghosts in his head; there is comfort in his touch, in the mere feel of him. This is familiar. This is safe.

This is home.

…

“How’s their breakfast buffet?” he asks, hours later, with his nose poking into one of her breasts.

He’s slept a while. Combined with a few nice shots of endorphins – thanks to some much-needed lovemaking – his mood seems to have improved almost dramatically.

She shrugs a little. “Edible.” She smiles when he lets out something close to a purr as she scratches his scalp. “They’ve got all your favourites.”

His next sound is definitely a purr, mixed with some Italian.

They share a quick shower before heading down to the restaurant; they’ve already decided he’ll just attend the last day of seminar with her, before flying back to London together tonight. Although it’s still quite early, a few of her colleagues are already having breakfast; they all smile a little too quickly when they spot her husband by her side, a reaction they’re both happy to ignore, more interested in the buffet.

“How much money do you think they’re gonna make off of us?” she cannot help but ask while he fills up his plate with scrambled eggs.

“Not as much as your father did last night,” he replies. When Rose frowns, he gives a tilt of his head. “He’s the one who helped me get a flight. I think he could hear how miserable I was, but I doubt feeling bad for me kept him from bragging about it to your mum.”

“Nah, it wouldn’t have,” she agrees, getting herself some toasts. “Maybe it’s time we start making some of our bets about them, too.”

He does not say anything to this.

Dread starts squeezing at her heart before she even turns to look at him, just like it had back at her parents’ mansion the previous week, finding him paler than he was even last night, his gaze vacant.

When his plate of eggs and sausages slips from his fingers, she instinctively reaches out to grab it, only for the whole thing to come crashing down a moment later, along with her food, having dropped everything in an attempt to keep her husband from collapsing to the ground.

Her attempt is unsuccessful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already have the first draft written for the next part (even if it's VERY VERY drafty), so hopefully it shouldn't take me four months to update this time hahahahaha.
> 
> I do miss interacting with you, lovely readers, so don't hesitate to drop me a line ♥ Until next time!


	5. V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is now complete :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, last part of this little story :-) As previously warned, this contains sooome regeneration angst.

**V.**

Death by exposure to extreme radiation is…unpleasant.

Slightly agonising, too.

When the pain fades enough for him to become aware of his surroundings again, he’s not curled on the floor of a radiation chamber anymore, but curled on the floor of a hotel restaurant, amongst scattered eggs, bacon, and sausages.

He doesn’t immediately realise that he was never in that chamber at all.

It takes some arguing on Rose’s part to convince the hotel employees now surrounding him that he doesn’t need to be taken to a hospital, pretending he’s got some kind of condition that causes him to experience ‘seizures’ such as the one they just witnessed. Thankfully, he’s regained the ability to speak by then, confirming everything she’s just said, assuring them that all he needs is rest, along with some imaginary medicine left in their room.

His wife is _not_ convinced by her own words; he can tell that much every time their eyes meet while he sits on that chair they’ve put him on, nursing a glass of water he’s struggling to drink. He suspects that if it were up to her, she would already have dragged his arse to the closest medical centre.

“It’s started.”

That’s all he had to say to get her to understand the severity of the situation, though.

They still have no idea how the other Doctor’s regeneration is going to affect him, but they can’t take the risk of having him ‘burst into flames’ in the middle of a hospital waiting room.

By the time they’re allowed to leave the restaurant, having successfully lied their way out of this, he’s able to stand on his own, although he has to lean heavily on Rose, who doesn’t complain once.

There is also the slight matter of his dissociation.

It was already quite bad up to this point; it’s gone past being manageable, now.

“He’s fighting it,” he tells her as soon as they’re alone in the elevator, still trying to keep some of his weight off her, and failing.

The pull is strong.

It’s so tempting to simply stop trying to remain in this particular aching body and to give in, even if it’s to be thrown into another aching body.

Months.

He’s spent _months_ trying to prove himself more than anyone else that he was more than a hybrid version of the person he used to be. Rose, in all of her kindness and empathy, never seemed to doubt him, even in his worst moments. Beyond the life he was building with her, he’s been following his _own_ path, choosing his own career, even growing his own TARDIS.

Yet here he is, unable to tell who he is anymore. _Again_.

One moment, he’s a part-human being helped into bed, the next he’s a Time Lord living through the last hour of this life, fighting regeneration with every beat of his hearts, determined to get his reward.

The lines are blurring, and he’s terrified. That fear clenches at his own singular heart; he might lose it all, just when he was truly starting to appreciate what he’d been given.

Time becomes unsubstantial, a bittersweet irony in this case, sinking deeper and deeper into this feverish trance, until the lines are beyond blurred; they’re gone, dissolved away.

He’s become the man he used to be, as if he’d never stopped at all.

 _Rose_ is the only thing tethering him to this side of the Void, vaguely aware of her voice, or the cool cloths she presses to his skin, briefly taking him away from the encounters with all these people he lost, his last attempt at goodbyes.

He’s just watched Jack salute him in a crowded bar, when another set of sensations pierces through the dread in his heart(s), overwhelmed with a different kind of fear and helplessness.

Forcing himself to refocus, he reaches up, grabbing Rose’s arm by the sleeve of her shirt to avoid more contact, pulling her hand away from his face.

“Don’t…” he hears himself whispering. “I’ve lost control. It’s too much.”

Too much for him or for her?

He doesn’t even know, but his anxiety seems enough to convince her not to do it again, and he sinks back into his daze.

By the time he’s watching Donna from a distance, unable to _talk_ to her, he’s ready for this to end. Regeneration isn’t meant to be delayed like this; the energy trapped in his every cell burns at him from the inside out.

And then, there is Rose. It isn’t the Rose currently by his side in a hotel, though, a helpless spectator to his demise.

This Rose is younger, yet just as kind, smiling at him through falling snow.

There is relief and grief in that last encounter, just as there is relief and grief in the song that soon blossoms from the centre of his mind.

He lets out a groan, half-collapsed upon a snow-covered street, also letting out a groan against Rose’s shoulder.

She’s managed to make him sit up in bed.

“Please,” she’s saying, her voice ringing with fear, pleading. “You’re burning up, you need to get into that bath.”

Even in his daze, he understands she must have run a cold bath, with the intent of making him soak into it to try and get his fever under control before it boils his brain. Unfortunately, he’s not simply slumped against his wife’s shaking body.

He’s _still_ in London, on his hands and knees, cold snow melting against the burning skin of his fingers while music swells.

This is the end.

And if this is the end…

He forces himself to move, both on the street and upon the bed, getting back onto his feet. He doesn’t know, doesn’t know what will happen, how it will happen. All he knows is that if it happens _here_ anywhere as strongly as it’s about to happen _there_ , he cannot allow Rose to remain near him the way she is now.

In her struggle to take him to the bathroom, their skins have come into contact again, aware now that she sees and feels some of what he’s experiencing, her distress growing by the second as her own head fills up with music, such a beautiful and aching melody, all of it combined with a deep sense of inevitability and finality.

Now at the door, he begins fighting against her grip, his gestures weak and sloppy, yet oddly successful.

“Stay out.”

His voice sounds distant and slurred.

“I’m not leaving you _now_ ,” she protests at once, even as he uses all of his strength and manages to get into the bathroom, already trying to close the door on her, but she holds onto it with even more force, pushing back.

“ _Please_.” He’s the one to beg, now, grabbing at her hand. “Please, you cannot stay close to me.”

His terror overwhelms her. This fear isn’t even about himself; he’s terrified of what this might do to _her_.

His dread is so intense that she does let go of the door, and it closes on her, just as the TARDIS’s door closes on a snowy night sky.

The Doctor walks to the console, and he walks to the tub, stepping into it, before submerging his burning body in cold water.

_I don’t want to go._

…

For a while, all Rose can do is lean against the door, her tearstained cheek pressed to the wood as she listens for noises, _any_ noises.

There is some splashing water, picturing him getting into the tub, trying hard to convince herself that he didn’t simply faint as he tried getting inside and maybe drowned.

She quickly picks up on his ragged breathing, though, along with some muttered words, but even _that_ stops after a while.

She may have allowed him to go inside on his own in a desperate attempt to soothe some of his agony, as he’d been convinced he was going to hurt her, she cannot _accept_ this, the maddening thumps of her heart made even louder in this unbearable silence.

Whatever was going to happen…it’s happened, now; she feels it in her bones.

Not hesitating any longer, she opens the door and steps into the room.

As she suspected, he’s gotten into the tub, fully dressed. Although both his hands are up to his face, she sees enough of him to know that he’s still…him.

“Doctor?” she calls out softly, and his hands drop from his face.

He doesn’t look at her, but what she sees in his eyes causes her galloping heart to squeeze in anguish.

“He’s gone,” he announces in a constricted whisper.

The pain in his voice makes her move, walking to the tub. She gets into it, just as dressed as he is, until she’s lying upon his chest, ignoring the cold water biting at her skin through her already-soaked clothes, pressing her face to that place between his jaw and ear. She seeks solace in the sturdy feel of him, in the weight and pressure of his arms as they come around her and _squeeze_ her so tight.

He does nothing to dim their bond, now; there are no more barriers.

He lets her absorb everything he’s seen and felt. Her shaking increases which each new vision, as does the strength of her crying. She takes it all in, how he sacrificed himself, how he fought to remain _him_ long enough to say goodbye to the people who mattered most to him.

How he kept her for last.

How he died alone, a universe away from her.

…

They fly first class.

Rose usually avoids using her status as _‘daughter of a rich man’_ to get privileges, preferring to travel the way she always has. She chose practicality and comfort over core principles, today, deciding that if spending the extra money meant a smoother trip back for both of them, so be it.

They’ve been in the air for over an hour, getting close to landing, now. They haven’t said a word the entire flight, having spent most of the day completely silent, still in some sort of shock, processing what he’s gone through

Sitting near the window, the Doctor’s gaze is lost in the night sky; he’s not entirely…there, his eyes glazed over as he stares but does not see. Although he looks significantly better than he did earlier today, his face bears traces of his ordeal, from his strained features to the dark hollows beneath his eyes.

They’ll talk, eventually. _Really_ talk. Discuss what happened. What it means for him; for them.

Not yet.

Having barely let go of his hand in hours, Rose gives his fingers a squeeze; his connection to the other Doctor might have gone with him, _their_ bond only seems to be getting stronger. He’s long ago dimmed it, giving each other some respite, but he’s been just as reluctant to let her go. He responds to the pressure at once, his head rolling upon the back of the seat as he looks at her.

His eyes aren’t so vacant anymore, crinkling at their corners as he gives her a small, tired smile.

He quickly averts his eyes again, though, his smile faltering as he looks down at their hands, and she follows his gaze. He’s moved his fingers, now using his thumb upon her wedding band, making it roll slowly upon her skin. Unable not to, she reaches up with her free hand, cupping his prickly cheek, his scruff back to being closer to a beard.

He sighs at her touch, closing his eyes; his thumb doesn’t relent, though, making her ring spin…spin…spin…

“I’m still…him,” he eventually whispers.

She drops her hand from his face, resting it upon his chest, until she’s able to feel the beats of his heart.

“I know,” she responds, her voice barely louder than his.

He reopens his eyes, which are slightly red-rimmed again. It would be difficult for her to describe the nature of her grief, to even try to transcribe the complexity of it into words; whatever she’s feeling, though, she knows it’s nothing compared to what he’s experiencing.

“I don’t just mean the fact that I didn’t change today,” he continues.

Although his voice remains low, there is a hoarse quality to it he can’t conceal. She doesn’t push, letting him speak on his own terms.

“I’ve always understood it, semantically. But I didn’t always…accept it. I thought I had to prove myself, show that I was… _me_.” He shakes his head, swallowing hard. “I failed to realise how it didn’t matter. That we really were the same, despite our differences.”

She interrupts his soft fidgeting, moving her hand to intertwine their fingers, palm against palm.

“Yeah,” she says, very quietly. “You were. Still are, Doctor. Whoever he is, now...you're still part of him.”

He pulls their hands up, brings them to his face, pressing his lips upon her wedding band.

“I’m the lucky one,” he whispers against her skin, and she squeezes his hand again.

“Funny,” she says. “Always thought the lucky one was me.”

She knows what he meant, and how he meant it, but it doesn’t make her comment any less true.

All it takes is a simple nudge of her mind and he opens up their bond once more, allowing him to feel everything she’s not saying out loud. How lucky she is indeed, not just for having him, here and now, but for having him crash into her life, all these years ago, making his own words come true. These words spoken to her from the future.

His ending; her beginning.

_I bet you’re gonna have a really great year._

She senses his own gratitude as she moves, shifting to bring them closer, pinning herself to his side while he rests his cheek upon her head, breathing her in as deeply as he can. They stare out the small window together, watching as they approach London.

The city emerges from the night in bright, colourful dots, a constellation made out of lights, when the ones they used to explore were once made out of stars.

It doesn’t matter; not anymore.

This constellation is theirs to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, guys ♥ As always, feedback is not mandatory, but it's a lovely way to make writers feel appreciated ;-)


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